what's simple is true (Sansa/Tyrion)
Dec. 26th, 2013 10:39 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dollsomeWritten for the prompt ‘Sansa/Tyrion, snowed in.’ Set in some distant post-war, post-White Walkers-apocalypse future where everything turned out pretty okay for these two, because why not. This is so fluffy and devoid of sorrow that it’s like I’m slapping George R.R. Martin with a glove to challenge him to a duel. FOR FLUFF, Mr. Martin! For fluff.
what's simple is true - Game of Thrones ; Sansa/Tyrion ; 500 words. Tyrion and Sansa get caught in a summer storm.
+
They duck into the stables when the storm hits. One minute the snow is tranquil, almost charming – though still not suitable summer weather by Tyrion’s standards. The next, the world has gone white around them and the biting wind makes breathing damned near impossible. Sansa is more certain about the ground under their feet (even if it is not quite the childhood home she knew, it is still Winterfell, and she still has Stark blood in her veins) and so she is the one to take his hand and guide him to shelter.
In the stables, the horses regard them none too agreeably. It most likely has something to do with the burst of cold and snow they bring inside with them before Sansa tugs the doors shut.
One of the horses snorts judgmentally at them. Tyrion scowls at him, feels a little guilty, and then turns his scowl to a more worthy recipient: the storm outside, visible through the small windows on the far side of each stall. (Sansa insisted upon windows in the stables; “It’s awful to feel caged,” she said, in the tones of one who knew it well. “They deserve a bit of light.”)
For a moment, they’re both quiet, happy to breathe in slightly less frigid air, even if it is indisputably horsier than one could like.
“You hate it here,” Sansa accuses then. As far as accusations go, it is the lightest and politest of them.
It immediately sends Tyrion spiraling into guilty protests.
Damn the woman. How does she do it?
“Hate it? No. It’s very beautiful. I’m ... silent with awe. That’s all.”
“You’re shivering.”
“Trembling in awe,” he corrects wryly.
She laughs at that, her customary quiet laugh that always seems like a little indulgence. He works harder for those laughs than anything else. There is no currency he likes better.
“If you’re to be the Lord of Winterfell,” she says, tilting her head downward, lowering her voice just for him, “you can’t just go around ‘trembling in awe’ all the time. People must respect you, you know.”
“You are the Lady of Winterfell. The Queen in the North. And I am your consort, nothing more. They have you to respect, and that’s all they need. I imagine the people and I quite agree on that score.”
She does not answer; just looks at him, her eyes bright and thoughtful.
“It’s only a summer storm,” she says at last, sinking onto her knees so their faces are level. “It will pass soon.”
She brushes the snowflakes from his hair, her fingers gentle and sure. Suddenly—remarkably— he cannot muster a single bad feeling toward summer storms.
“And what, Lady Stark, do you recommend we do in the meantime?”
“Well, that’s very easy,” she replies primly, tones very serious, eyes bright. “We must keep you warm.”
“All very well and good, my dear lady wife, but we’ve already established that it’s not shivering I’m doing—very unmanly business, shivering—it’s trembling in—”
She silences him with a kiss.
“—awe,” he finishes lightly when they part.
Sansa smiles. “You said that already.”
He strokes her cheek. “Yes, well. It so happens there’s a great deal to be in awe of.”
“You’d best get used to it.” She rests her hand over his. “You’re home now.”
When the storm does dwindle off some minutes later, the cold giving way to kind sunlight, it goes unnoticed.
what's simple is true - Game of Thrones ; Sansa/Tyrion ; 500 words. Tyrion and Sansa get caught in a summer storm.
+
They duck into the stables when the storm hits. One minute the snow is tranquil, almost charming – though still not suitable summer weather by Tyrion’s standards. The next, the world has gone white around them and the biting wind makes breathing damned near impossible. Sansa is more certain about the ground under their feet (even if it is not quite the childhood home she knew, it is still Winterfell, and she still has Stark blood in her veins) and so she is the one to take his hand and guide him to shelter.
In the stables, the horses regard them none too agreeably. It most likely has something to do with the burst of cold and snow they bring inside with them before Sansa tugs the doors shut.
One of the horses snorts judgmentally at them. Tyrion scowls at him, feels a little guilty, and then turns his scowl to a more worthy recipient: the storm outside, visible through the small windows on the far side of each stall. (Sansa insisted upon windows in the stables; “It’s awful to feel caged,” she said, in the tones of one who knew it well. “They deserve a bit of light.”)
For a moment, they’re both quiet, happy to breathe in slightly less frigid air, even if it is indisputably horsier than one could like.
“You hate it here,” Sansa accuses then. As far as accusations go, it is the lightest and politest of them.
It immediately sends Tyrion spiraling into guilty protests.
Damn the woman. How does she do it?
“Hate it? No. It’s very beautiful. I’m ... silent with awe. That’s all.”
“You’re shivering.”
“Trembling in awe,” he corrects wryly.
She laughs at that, her customary quiet laugh that always seems like a little indulgence. He works harder for those laughs than anything else. There is no currency he likes better.
“If you’re to be the Lord of Winterfell,” she says, tilting her head downward, lowering her voice just for him, “you can’t just go around ‘trembling in awe’ all the time. People must respect you, you know.”
“You are the Lady of Winterfell. The Queen in the North. And I am your consort, nothing more. They have you to respect, and that’s all they need. I imagine the people and I quite agree on that score.”
She does not answer; just looks at him, her eyes bright and thoughtful.
“It’s only a summer storm,” she says at last, sinking onto her knees so their faces are level. “It will pass soon.”
She brushes the snowflakes from his hair, her fingers gentle and sure. Suddenly—remarkably— he cannot muster a single bad feeling toward summer storms.
“And what, Lady Stark, do you recommend we do in the meantime?”
“Well, that’s very easy,” she replies primly, tones very serious, eyes bright. “We must keep you warm.”
“All very well and good, my dear lady wife, but we’ve already established that it’s not shivering I’m doing—very unmanly business, shivering—it’s trembling in—”
She silences him with a kiss.
“—awe,” he finishes lightly when they part.
Sansa smiles. “You said that already.”
He strokes her cheek. “Yes, well. It so happens there’s a great deal to be in awe of.”
“You’d best get used to it.” She rests her hand over his. “You’re home now.”
When the storm does dwindle off some minutes later, the cold giving way to kind sunlight, it goes unnoticed.
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Date: 2013-12-26 08:49 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2014-07-01 07:11 am (UTC)